


Waking Up (Is Hard To Do)

by RoseHipTea



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Bucky works in a tattoo parlor, Families of Choice, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Minor Character Death, Multi, Natasha Romanov Knows Everything, Past Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Build, Steve is an artist, or something like it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-03-30 03:29:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3921265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseHipTea/pseuds/RoseHipTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky falls. Steve's plane crashes. Neither are ever seen again. Roughly fifty years later, they wake up from their nightmares and get on with their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story came to me while I was taking a shower after watching The First Avenger. As such, I apologize for any glaring errors I have created in order to tell my own story. These characters are not mine, except for the ones that are, and God bless Stan Lee and the rest of Marvel for giving them to us. Title from Heart Attack by Sum 41.

Falling. Falling and a man screaming and cold air and snow. He knew that voice, he knew who it was and he needed to get back to them, they were in trouble,they were hurt. He wanted to make it better, wanted to soothe away the hurt and scared. but he was falling. He knew that voice. Why couldn’t he think of the face that went with it? Why couldn’t he see? Oh. He opened his eyes. His head was turned to the side, facing down into a ravine, the smooth walls of stone rushing past on either side. Why were the walls moving? Oh right, he was falling. The voice was growing fainter, he had to turn now, had to see who it was. He turned his head some more, saw a piece of metal pipe in his hand, why did he have a pipe? He couldn’t hear the voice anymore. He hit the ground. he saw black, then the red of sunlight seen behind closed eyelids. A pair of blue eyes larger than the sun looked reproachfully at him. He saw black.   

    James woke up with a start, shook off the now familiar nightmare, and went to make coffee.

 

*****

       

    He was so lonely. The wind ruffled his hair and the cold stung and wisps of cloud snuck in through the shattered glass, and he wanted to cry, wanted to scream at the unfairness, but he couldn’t, wouldn’t, he knew it wasn’t really unfair. He did what he had to do. There was a voice, speaking to him, scratchy, blurred by interference and choked back tears, but unmistakably female. He could hear her, and spoke back, but the words never fully registered. Something about dancing. Dancing sounded nice. There was a hole in the space beside him, a hole with blue eyes and brown hair, and a contagious grin. A hole where there should have been strength and solidity. Tears threatened, but he fought them off. He would make him proud. He would see him again soon. The plane hit the water, and it was cold and he felt the tears finally come as he was pulled underwater, as he felt something made of strength and solidity wrap around him. Endless blue faded to black. The world went white.

Steve felt the dampness of his pillowcase before he even opened his eyes. He lay there blinking for a moment, wiping the last of his tears.

 

*****

 

    Walking to work that morning, James found he couldn’t shake the nightmare after all. For years he had lived with it, ever since he was a teenager. Some details changed over time, shifting minutely, but it was always the same. The falling, the voice, the pipe, the dying. The first couple of times it had unnerved him, people didn’t usually die in their own dreams did they? And hadn’t he read somewhere that the only people in your dreams are people you’ve met in real life? He knew that voice, knew it well enough to pick out a million subtle emotions and thoughts in the tone. He could even picture the expressions that went along with it, knew them well. But he could never place the voice among people he knew, and couldn’t think of a reason his subconscious mind would assign so many thought out traits to a stranger’s overheard voice. But he had learned to deal with it.

After the accident, the nightmare got worse for a while. Instead of holding a metal pipe, James was holding his own arm,  and later, the unwieldy monstrosity that the doctors strapped

on.The worst nightmares though, were the ones where the familiar voice was missing. The cold, lonely death was harder to bear, even in his own head.

 

But this morning, James could not stop thinking about it. It was useless analyzing his own psyche anymore, he had picked his own brains for years, and paid a highly expensive therapist to do it for him after the accident, and he couldn’t do it anymore, while the shrink had been useless from the start. (“Did you ever have a phobia of needles? Doctors? Heights?” No, that wasn’t the point at all.)

 

He couldn’t stop turning last night’s repetition over in his mind, certain that something was different. That he had passed a defining moment, and something was going to change (had already changed, and he had missed it).

 

*****

 

    Steve knew it was fucked up. He knew you weren’t supposed to die in dreams, that you would always wake up before you hit the ground. Who dreamed about their own death constantly for ten years? DIdn’t most people have more than a few dreams? Ever since he was a teenager, it had been the nightmare in the plane, interspersed with the occasional “normal” dream, a few details added or altered, but essentially the same.

 

    Sometimes the crying woman would fade out for a moment, and Steve would hear another voice in the staticky space. Faint and fading, but familiar somehow. It sounded safe (it sounded like home, and reassurance, but he could never place why). When he could hear the other voice, he never woke up crying. Sometimes, there was no voice, and he was so alone, crippled by the silence. Once,while he was flying, fingers hitting switches on autopilot, he had seen a man out of the corner of his eye. His face was blurred, and any time Steve moved his head to see him more clearly he faded completely, but his eyes were bright, almost glowing blue, and that night Steve didn’t feel alone.

 

    He had spent hours trying to figure out what he was telling himself, but the definitions h found in dream dictionaries were no help (Steve seriously doubts that his is setting his personal standards too high), had even kept dream diaries to try and document each change, to see if maybe he could find the source, but nothing had brought him any closer to understanding. Eventually, he gave up, figuring that if he was supposed to keep reliving his own violent, watery, death, far be it from him to challenge fate.

 

    Steve sighed, and got up, blinking away the last of the evidence

 

*****

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A typical morning for James

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I worked in this tattoo parlor that came out of my head, it seems cool.

Considering his...arm, Bucky thought that he had gotten pretty lucky in terms of employment. Luckily, he was right handed, and only had to use his left hand for balance, so he could still draw and operate equipment perfectly, but it still scared some people, trusting a man with a metal arm to permanently draw on their skin. He still had his job though, and Rob, the man who ran the shop was known for his care in selecting his staff from the best people available. Anyway, if a person didn’t trust him enough based on appearances alone, James probably didn’t want to do anything for them anyway.

    He arrived early, and waited for Beth, the head artist, to turn up and unlock the door. He leaned against the wall and sipped his third cup of coffee slowly, managing to sear his taste buds anyway. The rough stone wall ground into the back of his head, catching on his hair and clothes as he stood against it, still lost in his head, running over his dream for the millionth time. He almost missed the small click of the key turning in the lock (and he did not jump, no matter what Beth said, he just moved suddenly, he had a job to do you know, appointments to take care of).

    “Morning James” , Beth smiled. “ Need some more caffeine there, do we?”. Beth was a short woman, with long, bright orange and red hair that looked like flames when she walked. She had been in charge of personally reviewing every design that came into the shop for years, and in charge of training and shadowing every new employee for even longer. None of the current staff knew where she had come from, or exactly how long she had worked there, but they all knew that if they asked her they would get a different answer every day of the week. Beth was not the sharing type, and James could respect that.

Not being sharing did not mean that Beth wasn’t a mother hen though. Everyone on the payroll could name at last on time when she had brought them food while they were ill, or while a child or a spouse was. During the months that he was out of the hospital, but not yet ready to face work and the rest of the world, James had found one casserole (and sometimes cookies) a week outside his apartment door. There was never a note or a clue as to who they came from, but he didn’t need one. Beth’s smile when he returned to the shop had been the only clue needed.

Mutely, he followed her into the small shop. This was their routine, this was safe territory, far from the freaky nightmares. Every morning Beth would come and let him in, and they would set up their respective tasks in a comfortable silence. Routine was nice.

At exactly 8:05, Jesse, the trainee piercer walked through the door, her standard cup of Starbucks from the shop across the street in her hand, her headphones firmly on her head over her teal beanie. Today the headphones were black, with cat ears attached to the top of the band. James smiled, they were cute.

Jesse disappeared into the back of the shop to do whatever it was she did as the rest of the employees trickled in. The staff was small, but they were a tight knit group of friends, and worked well together.

After Jesse, Rob, the owner of the establishment, walked in. He was older, middle aged at best, with a pot belly and an impressive beard, still deep brown despite his greying hair. After him came Max, the piercer training Jesse. Max was small boned, but athletic and strong, wiry muscles showing under his constant sleeveless tops with invariable tribal print patterns. There was something about his face, his sharp nose and full lips that James found himself strangely drawn to. They had hooked up more times than he cared to admit. After Max had walked past, throwing a carefully ignored smirk at James, Natasha, the last ( and James’ favorite) member of the small team arrived.

There was something about the red-headed Russian girl that James related to. He didn’t know what it was, but when, at age fifteen, he had first seen her, her small frame lost in the shadows of the four bigger, stronger boys, that he felt the need to protect. Not that she really needed it these days, having grown up considerably in both attitude and strength, but it was the thought that counted. Natasha was his sister, and if anyone tried to mess with her, they would have both of them to deal with.

She smiled at him.

“So, how's it going Barnes?”

  
*****


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day with Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was beta'd by my bestest friend in the whole world, the devilshly handsome G.  
> I know the stuff with Phil might be confusing, especially for anyone watching Agents of Shield, where he is not dead, but I am still working with the events of the cinematic universe in which he died in The Avengers. As nothing in the mcu up until The Winter Soldier suggests that he is still alive, in my universe he's dead and was reincarnated because he didn't get his fair share out of life.
> 
> None of these characters are mine except for the ones that are, and God bless Stan Lee and the rest of Marvel for letting us play with them.
> 
> I also apologize for the huge delay in posting this chapter, but finals week begins tomorrow and I am definitely feeling stressed out. I will be able to update much more regularly soon I hope, so please bear with me.

Steve was having a good day. After shaking off his dreams (he thought), he made coffee, and lounged around watching cartoons in his sweatpants while he drank the entire pot of said coffee. He took a long shower, relaxing and enjoying the freedom to use a much hot water as he wanted without being yelled at by a roommate or ten for it later (and if he jerked off louder than usual, well, he could do that now). He emerged relaxed and smelling faintly of the peach body wash that Phil had gotten him for a joke one Christmas. Steve would never admit to actually using it (and buying more of it when he ran out). Having an apartment of his own was better than he had thought. Lonelier than what he was used to though, maybe he could get a cat. Maybe.

When he was done enjoying his new independence, he settled down in his studio (His studio! Not a corner of the kitchen or the end of a hallway with bad lighting and no room and nosy roommates!) to work on a new commission. Steve enjoyed his job. It might not pay as much as being, say, a neurosurgeon, but he didn’t want to be a neurosurgeon. He loved his art, and he still made a lot of money as a freelance artist. It was all a fluke really, some young executive types who didn’t act like they were too good for independent gallery shows had seen his work, and that was that. Most of the stuff he did was pretty standard, some nice everyday

incomprehensible office wall art, or high end birthday presents, pictures of people’s pets and childhood homes. There was that one time he was asked to decorate a life sized mannequin to look like a woman in the photos that his customer had brought to the consultation. The picture was slightly blurred, but her face had been clear, and there had been dark shapes around the edges that it had been taken from behind or inside something. Say, maybe bushes. Steve didn’t take that job. 

But now that he was actually ready to get down to work, Steve found that he couldn’t concentrate on his newest piece ( a large German Shepard with a small child next to it). Instead, he felt his mind drift back to the airplane. Grabbing the nearest sketchbook, he tried to draw out as much of the interior as he could remember. He couldn’t remember ever having seen much more of it than the control panel and some of the unusual contouring visible in his peripheral vision. Maybe it was time to stop focusing on his own memories and accept that if he didn’t remember this, maybe he could find another way to identify it. After fifteen minutes, he had gleaned all he could from his scattered thoughts, and had turned to trying to sketch the mysterious shadowy man. Real work forgotten, Steve sketched all through the morning, drawing everything he could remember. He had pictures of the arms of the pilot’s seat, his own arms, the cracked window, the switches on the control panel. He was exhausted. Digging all of that up, the little details that were too easily changed or forgotten from one night to the next, had drained something inside of him, and at the same time had dragged up half remembered echos of deep, cold, sadness, and a burning regret. 

Standing and stretching, he looked at the clock sitting on the corner of the small desk. Almost one. Phil would be over soon for their pre-Scrubs-marathon video games afternoon. 

 

*****

 

Steve had to say, for his first time hosting Scrubs night, it went pretty well. Phil showed up around two, at least seven new games in hand, and they proceeded to battle for video game dominance for the next three and a half hours. Around five thirty, Natasha showed up after getting lost three times and having to call Phil for directions. 

Steve had never met Natasha, but Phil had been claiming for weeks that Steve would love her, and begged to be allowed to invite her to Scrubs night as soon as Steve was settled into his new apartment. Steve didn’t even really know how Phil and Natasha had met each other, but it had something to do with the tattoo Phil had just gotten ( a quill pen dripping ink and a few lines of poetry, inscribed vertically over his left ribs) at the tattoo parlour where she worked either as an artist or a receptionist (maybe both? Steve wasn’t sure). He hoped for everyone’s sake that she was actually a decent person, and not like some of the other new friends that Phil “knew he would just love”.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James does stuff and argues with Natasha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for yet another delay, I had a bit of writer's block with this chapter. I know it seems like I'm taking my sweet time, but I do know where this is going, and it won't be long before we get to some real action. In other news, you should be grateful that this didn't turn out angsty as hell, because I am having some major emotional problems with The Beatles at the moment. Please enjoy and comment!

James woke up to the sound of Taylor Swift. Definitely not by choice. Rolling over with a groan, he shoved Bentley’s furry ass out of his face and grabbed his phone off the nightstand, knowing exactly who was calling at this time of morning.

    “Naaat…” he whined blearily. “It’s five in the morning. Asgh, Bentley, get off me you dumb cat”. Natasha just laughed, annoyingly cheery for the unholy hour.

    “You needed to get up soon anyway.” She quipped. “Besides, I wanted to talk to you somewhere you can’t just walk away from me.

    “You realize that I could just hang up at any time?”

    “Yeah, but you won’t if you value your life.” She had him there, if James knew what was healthy for him, he would never hang up on her.

    “Fine. Manipulative bitch. What do you want at this God-awful time?” James was smiling.

    Natasha grinned wide on the other end of the phone. “To set you up Jamie-boy”

 

*****

 

    Two hours into the workday, and James and Natasha still hadn’t stopped arguing, shouting back and forth between their private rooms, and making all of their coworkers take sides in the so called “Battle For James’ Heart” (thanks for that Jesse). Natasha refused to back down on the issue, and James was staunchly refusing to break down, or even hear about this guy whom she seemed to think he would hit it off with. She was oddly persistent this time, and no one at the shop had ever seen her try so hard with her matchmaker routine.

    She poked her head into James’ room.

    “No, Nat” He muttered, not even looking up from where he was pressing a stencil onto the shoulder of a man with bright yellow hair (dyed or not, no one could tell, and the employees had started placing bets the minute he walked into the shop) and a nose ring.

    Smiling resignedly, she backed out of the room. She would back down for now. There was no way that this was over though, she would make sure of that.

 

*****

 

Thursday was Lunch Date Day. The tradition had been implemented when Max and then Jesse had been hired within weeks of each other, neither of them with a stable enough income to support themselves for very long at a time. The idea was that, until they could comfortably pay bills and buy food at the same time, the entire staff, Beth and Rob included would go out for a late lunch once a week and pool their money to buy several meals. Everyone got to eat, and any leftovers were taken to go and divided between the two piercers. They protested at first, but were grateful for the help. Now that both Jesse and Max had enough money to live comfortably, the leftovers went to whoever needed them, and  Lunch Date was a tradition that was sure to last for a long time.

    James loved Lunch Date Day. He didn’t have much family left that still talked to him, and he didn’t see them very often. The employees of Ink Inc. were his family now, his family of choice, and they got along better than his real family ever had. Lunch Date Day was a chance to catch up on everyone’s lives and bond as a team.

    Currently, Jesse was poking Rob with the blunt tip of her table knife, spinning to face the other way every time he looked at her. She wasn’t fooling anyone, but Rob let her get away with it because she was the baby of the shop. Her beanie today was a Pokeball, and her headphones, visible resting around her neck, were Pikachu ears. Max was sullenly ignoring everybody at the table, sulking over being rejected by a female customer in front of all of them. Rob was carrying on a conversation with both Beth, and the couple sitting at the table next to them, who seemed quite interested in the inner workings of the body modification business.  James was listening to the others in silence, just smiling.

    After another half hour, the group packed up and headed back to the shop, where Natasha had been taking her weekly shift as Lunch Date Day receptionist, taking calls and corralling waiting customers until everyone else returned. James was dreading his turn the next week, he always seemed to get either the real crazies, people calling to ask if it was possible to tattoo a panther’s face onto their own; or the newbies, college girls getting Taylor Swift (he just can’t escape her, dammit) lyrics printed in sparkly font across the tops of their feet and asking nervous questions in imperious voices. He would rather argue with Natasha any day.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve contemplates tattoos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was kind of hard for me to write, because the dynamic between Natasha and our boys has to be just right, and I can't rush into revealing their true identities. Going slow is not my forte. I hope everyone likes it, and if you do (or even if you don't and would like to offer some constructive criticism), go ahead and leave a comment, because they make my day.

Steve liked Natasha. Mostly. She had been polite and distant for the first five minutes he had known her, and seemed to be weighing his worth, staring unnervingly when his back had been turned, burning holes in the back of his head with her grey-green eyes. Slightly disturbed, Steve had handed her a beer, a spark of static flickering between their fingers where they brushed on the bottle, and she had loosened up right away. Whatever, maybe she had a bad day at work, or a stressful week. That was the whole point of Scrubs night. No matter how bad it was, there was no problem that watching the janitor bulley J.D couldn’t solve, at least for a few hours. 

Three episodes in, Natasha was right at home, adding her own commentary to the running banter Phil and Steve kept up with the screen, and comfortably stuffing herself with the bags of junk food that they pooled money for each week, all previous awkwardness forgotten. By the time she left, she had managed to convince Steve that he should get some ink, and issued him a standing invitation to visit Ink Inc. for, if not a tattoo right away, then at least a consultation. In return, Steve had issued her a standing invitation for all future Scrubs nights, and a free pass for anyone she wanted to invite, within reason.

She had smiled at that.

“I know just the person”, she smirked, adding a (totally unnecessary) wink that suddenly made Steve just that much more afraid.

After she left and Phil had helped him clean up (or get the living room as close to clean as it would get in their state of “just a little bit too much past tipsy”), Steve decided that as long as he was considering going through with the whole getting a tattoo thing, he might as well have some kind of design in mind. He sat down in the middle of his bed, the downy comforter pulled around his crossed legs until it resembled a nest, sketchbook out and ready to draw some kickass body art. All he could draw was stars. He put pencil to paper and all he had to show for it was a page and a half of stars, all different sizes and groupings, with different framings, but all of the designs shared the same simple component: a five pointed star, shaded a grey that suggested silver, with a three dimensional quality that reminded him of fabric, though he had no idea why. He fell asleep like that, pencil still in hand. 

 

*****

 

He was flying, wind in his hair, cold breeze hardening his heart and mind against what he had to do. The sense of duty didn’t stop the urge to scream and rage and cry and smash. The sense of loss was heavy, a piece of his body was missing. Only half of him was present, and the realization of this came to him with a dull ache that suggested that he hadn’t been whole in some time. There was a woman speaking over scratchy speakers, her voice distant, her words pretty and oh-so-enticing, a warm comfort in the face of cold scraps of cloud. There was a shadow next to him, a vague outline of shadow, with hints of blue for eyes. Steve glanced up at it every few seconds as he flew, his fingers flying over the controls, adjusting course on autopilot. It tooki him several minutes to find that he knew the shadow, that the shadow had a name, a history, although he couldn’t remember what either was. 

Lost in thought, it took him several minutes to notice that the shadow had extended a slight outline of an arm, and seemed to be pointing. At Steve’s chest. Looking down, Steve noticed that he was wearing a uniform, seemingly decorated like the United States’ flag. Printed dead center on the taut fabric stretched over his chest was a white star. 

Unnoticed by the distracted pilot, the plane was veering dangerously close to the ice. By the time Steve looked up from the strangely captivating embellishment, it was too late. The plane hit the ice, a warm blanket of contentment a peace fell over him, winter blue eyes stared into his own. Everything was white.

Steve woke up.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My personal headcannon for reincarnation, at least in this fic, is that anyone who has lived a past life can sense other people who have also been reincarnated, but only if they know about their own past life. Occasionally, one of these people can trigger the memories of another reincarnated person.

    Natasha had given up on the matchmaker routine by the next day, thank god, because Bucky was not in the mood for discussing his love life with her. He had slept badly, not remembering what he dreamed (although he knew what it was anyway). He went through his day mechanically, mind wandering as he traced and colored. His arm was bothering him.

It didn’t hurt, but every time he looked at it he felt a profound wrongness. He had lived with it for almost two  years now, and he thought he was over the worst of the trauma. This felt similar though, and he was worried that it was leading up to some kind of breakdown. It was just the arm. The bare metal was suddenly disconcerting and alien, and he didn’t know how to feel about it.

“Just cover it up” Natasha offered when he talked to her over lunch.

“That’s not the point” James sighed. “It would still be there. I could wear long sleeved shirts for eternity, but I would still know it was there.”

“Then disguise it” Nat replied, picking at her sandwich and looking bored, looking more than anything like a cat.

“Disgui...Natasha what does that mean?”

“You know...cover it up. Paint, some kind of permanent sleeve. Make it into something you’re proud to wear, not something you’re scared of”. James’ eyes lit up, and Natasha let a small, sly grin slip on to her face. “ I know just the guy” she smirked.

  


*****

  


That was how James ended up with an appointment to see a freelance artist about painting his arm. He was assured over the phone that it was not the weirdest thing that this man (his name was….Stan? Sam? Something like that) had ever been asked to do.

Apparently he was a  friend of a friend of Natasha’s, a guy named Phil who had been in a few months ago. He seemed friendly enough, and although James didn’t mention Natasha by name, Steve (That was his name!) seemed perfectly willing to help anyone who had heard good things about his art. James assumed it was a starving artist thing.

He went home that night feeling slightly more confident that he could make it through this bout of whatever this was without any kind of major breakdown, and fell into bed almost as soon as he was in the door. He dreamed he was falling, but tonight the fall seemed to last forever, and there was a voice directly in his ear rather than one yelling down the side of a cliff. He couldn’t make out individual words, but the tone was sweet, the voice deep, and soon, it felt more like floating than falling. When he finally hit bottom, his vision faded slowly, and James only saw blackness for the rest of the night.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and some stars. That's all this is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written while listening to a playlist entitled "Emo but Happy"

Steve woke up surrounded by stars, and realized that maybe this was going to be more of a problem than it was when he went to sleep last night. He only remembered trying to draw four, maybe five, but the sheets of paper surrounding his nest of blankets ranged more into the twenties, and every single one was covered in stars. Some were large, some were small, and they had different textures, but they were all five pointed, and they all matched the single silver star he had seen in his dream last night. He gathered up all the papers he could find in the comforter, but when he considered throwing them away, some part of him seemed so violently disgusted by this idea that he actually flinched. Sighing, he set all the papers down on the way to to the shower, already anticipating the hot water. Everything hurt, like he really had been in a plane crash. 

 

*****

 

Steve couldn’t get the dream out of his head, again. Always with the dream. Just when he thought he could live with it, when everything was normal, something would change, his brain would throw in a new detail or a new layer of sensation, and he would have to spend the next nights first getting used to it, and then mulling them over for hours. Not by choice of course, but in quiet moments he would find his mind wandering, and the path it took was always the one that let to silent ghosts and broken glass under the ocean. 

He was starting to consider therapy, or at the very least blogging. If he could tell someone, anyone, who didn’t know him and couldn’t judge him, hampered either by professionalism or distance, he might start to feel like he had more control over this. 

he spent the next few days lost in contemplation, absently sketching designs for his next commissions. He had a piece due to what was essentially a hippie marketing firm next week, and some man had called on a recommendation from Natasha, which Steve thought was strange, considering she had barely seen his work, and even stranger, because the man (John? Jake? Steve couldn’t remember the name he was given over the phone) wanted Steve to paint over a prosthetic arm. He tried really hard to keep out of the affairs of the people he worked for, but this request was definitely worthy some interest, and Steve had been trying to work out subtle ways to work it into conversation at their first meeting.

 

*****

  
Stars. Fucking stars everywhere he looked. Steve couldn’t stop drawing them. They were all over his sketchbooks, a pair of sneakers, his kitchen table. He had caught himself doodling swirling stars up his arm while watching tv, he looked like a walking Lisa Frank notebook. Stars, stars, stars. He was considering getting one permanently etched on his forehead at this point. The only place he wasn’t constantly surrounded by stars was when he dreamed, and even then one was more than enough. Sometimes, he felt like it was glowing, sending out some kind of beam from his chest, straight out through the broken window. Sometimes, he swore he could feel it heating up, like his heart was powering not just his body, but the silvery star too.


End file.
